


Honeybee

by Prehensilizing



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Consensual, Dancing, F/M, Family, Fluff, Happy Ending, Incest, Mabel is 14, Stan gets booped, Stanbel - Freeform, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 09:29:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13831320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prehensilizing/pseuds/Prehensilizing
Summary: In which Mabel experiences a wardrobe malfunction. Stan comes to her rescue, in more ways than one.





	Honeybee

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags. Mabel is only slightly over canon age in this. 
> 
> AU - Mabel lives in Gravity Falls, and is attending Gravity Falls High School.

* * *

 

 

            "It's _not_ ugly."

            "Yeah, but she _said_ it's ugly."

            "You're _not_ ugly, pumpkin."

            Stan polished his glasses on the cuff of his sleeve before replacing them across the bridge of his nose. He blinked. Mabel stared up at him, red-rimmed and pouting. She sniffed. His heart broke a little more, another layer shedding away to drift down the air currents toward his feet.

            With a little effort, he knelt.

            "Hey," he said softly.

            She shrugged weakly. Papier-mâché beads rose and fell against her slender shoulders, accentuating the dip and curve of her collarbone. Her hair stretched down her neck in graceful ringlets. She really was beautiful. Stan swallowed.

            "Mabes," he said, in lieu of anything intelligent. "Sweetie."

            Large, warm hands settled upon her shoulders, where a few frayed fibers detached themselves from her dress, lazily spiraling to the floor. A papier-mâché dress to match his papier-mâché heart.

            "Pacifica was right," Mabel sighed, tugging the stiff fabric up with one finger. When she let go, the dress slid another centimeter further down her chest. "It's so impractical! It won't even stay on."

            Stan glanced respectfully at the ceiling.

            "Well... some guys go for that kind of thing."

            "But it's _prom!_ Prom is _fancy!_ What was I thinking?"

            "Mabel," Stan said gently. "Listen to me."

            She sniffed.

            "Are you listening?"

            A nod.

            "Good." He lifted her chin with a curved forefinger. "How many girls at your school could even begin to _make_ a dress? Much less a _prom_ dress?"

            "Candy has a sewing machine-"

            "Can Candy _make_ a dress?"

            "No," Mabel conceded. "Probably not."

            "No. She couldn't."

            "But it doesn't matter if-"

            "And how many girls," he cut her off, "would be brave enough to wear the dress they had made, with their own two hands, to the most important dance of the year?"

            Despite herself, Mabel smiled, just a bit.

            "No one."

            "Atta girl."

            "But it's still _ugly,_ " Mabel lamented, smile fading.

            "Hey, what are looks anyway? Any guy would be lucky to have a dance with someone as smart as you."

            Mabel shook her head.

            "I'm not smart. Dipper is the smart one."

            "Look at me." Stan's voice was low and intimidating. Mabel looked. "You are every bit as smart as your brother." He poked her shoulder, accentuating the 'bit.'

            "You really think so, Grunkle Stan?"

            "I know so, pumpkin. You're smart, and kind, and funny. _And_ beautiful." His face felt hot. He hoped he wasn't blushing. "And if a boy can't see that, he ain't worth your time."

            A giggle escaped Mabel, bubbling up from an unexpected place. Stan smiled.

            "There's my girl." He tapped the end of her nose.

            "Grunkle _Stan,_ " Mabel laughed, batting his hand away. Her dress sunk by another fraction. She sighed again, another long, soul-deep wistful sigh, the kind only a teenager can produce. "I don't have anything else to wear."

            Stan forced his eyes away from his niece's bare shoulders. If he wasn't blushing before, he definitely was now.

            "Well, uh," he stammered, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean, I, uh, I still think it looks nice."

            Mabel shook her head gloomily.

            "Even if I could wear it, prom is almost over anyway. I won't make it back in time. Blargh." She buried her face in her hands. "I only wanted someone to ask me to dance."

            Stan frowned. He wrestled with his thoughts for a long, quiet moment. Would it be wrong to ask his great-niece for a dance, just to cheer her up? Definitely. But did maintaining a moral high ground take precedent over Mabel's happiness?

            She was fourteen. She was vulnerable.

            With a groan, Stan got up and crossed the room. His suit pressed firmly against his chest, his girdle feeling tighter than usual. Before he could second-guess himself, he lifted the needle on the old turntable in the corner - of course the Mystery Shack had a Victrola - and a grainy guitar started to play.

            A chocolate voice crooned softly. _You didn't have to look my way-_

            "Grunkle Stan?" Mabel sniffed.

            _But you did. Yes, you did._

            "Mabes," Stan sighed. He closed his eyes, extending his hands stiffly in front of him. "Maybe this is insane but do you want to dance with me."

            He phrased it as a statement, ending on a softer tone than he'd begun. The room lurched, or maybe it was just his stomach. He didn't open his eyes. If he was lucky, she'd just leave the room. Save them both the embarrassment of eye contact.

            Seconds trailed by. The record player crackled warmly in the corner, like an old fireplace.

            _I don't want to live my life alone-_

Stan's shoulders drooped in resignation. She probably thought he was crazy. It occurred to him that maybe his offer of a dance would upset her more than having not been offered a dance at prom to begin with.

            What an idiot he was. Who would want to dance with their great uncle?

            He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter.

            "Mabes, I-"

            Small, warm hands filled his. He shivered.

            "I'd love to, Grunkle Stan," Mabel whispered. "But you should really probably open your eyes."

            He peeked one eye open, then the other. Mabel was gazing bemusedly up at him. She grinned. He could see straight down the rigid front of her papier-mâché dress. She wasn't wearing a bra.

            He let out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

            "Grunkle Stan, do you have a crush on me?" Mabel asked conspiratorially. The corner of her mouth quirked up into one of those devastating dimples, the kind that could give a sixty-five-year-old man a heart attack.

            "What?" Stan wheezed helplessly. "No?"

            "Ha!" Mabel threaded her fingers into the calloused webbing of his hands. "You totally do."

            "Mabel-"

            "It's okay, Grunkle Stan." She gave his hands a light squeeze. "One dance won't hurt."

            His shoulders slumped, and his Adam's apple bobbed once or twice. Cautiously, all the while hating himself for it, Stan lifted his elbow in an exploratory spin. Mabel, who was a good follow, leaned into the movement easily. She laughed.

            "See, dancing is great!"

            "Well-"

            "Again!"

            "Heh." Stan's heart rammed against his ribs, valiantly attempting to leap from his chest. If it was a little harder, he reflected, it might have even succeeded.

            He spun her again. Her hair flew in a magnificent halo around her shoulders, and she laughed. Idly, Stan wondered how long this could go on, how long she could possibly put up with him before realizing that he was a disgusting old man.

            For the moment, she was glowing. It was impossible not to smile back. Again, she said, as he spun her over and over. Again again again.

            _Set me free, my honeybee-_

            "You like that?" he asked as she twirled around his fingers.

            "Well, it's no Sev'ral Timez, but..." she winked.

            "You've got a lot to learn about music," he chuckled.

            He decided to try an experiment. When he spun her again, he navigated her ever so slightly closer to his body. Instead of holding both her hands, as he’d been doing, he relinquished one and cupped his opposite palm at her waist, careful to keep it above her hip. 

            Mabel laughed delightedly and her fingers alit delicately upon his shoulder. The dress clung precariously to curves that hadn’t yet realized their full potential. 

            “Grunk’s got the moves,” she exclaimed, beaming. The words pulsed pleasantly warm under his palm, an injection racing from his wrist straight to his ego. He could feel each breath. 

            “Heh,” he said, flushed. This is what he’d been reduced to - a series of inarticulate chuckles. Come on Stan, he thought. Get your head out of the gutter. He spun her again, if only to break eye contact for one precious moment. She was fourteen, he reminded himself, for the fourteenth time that minute. He was literally half a century older than her. And yet...

            Her smile, if anything, had grown. The phonograph continued its soft serenade, a sugary quartet spun from that first chocolatey thread.

            _You didn't have to smile at me-_

            He caught her at the end of her spin, placing a firm hand between her shoulder blades. With the ease of years of practice, he dipped her to the floor. She allowed her entire weight to transfer to his arm - she trusted him completely. Oh, Mabel. His nerves were a wreck. 

            _But you did. Yes, you did._

            They hung there for a long few seconds before he lifted her back to standing. His hand lingered on her back for a moment. He caught himself, and self-consciously stowed it away in a pocket. The track crackled to an unlikely close, ending on a chord that sounded unsure of itself. 

            A new song began. Mabel didn’t lose her shit-eating grin. 

            “You do!” She exclaimed, laughing. All thoughts of prom had, evidently, been forgotten. The dress, impossibly, still clung to her body. 

            “I do what?” Stan retorted a little hotly. Christ, was he that transparent? He schooled his face back to its usual gruff mask. 

            "You _like_ me," she giggled, and punched him in the arm.

            "Ow," he said. "Mabes."

            "La la la, you _like_ me-"

            "Mabel."

            "La la la-"

            "Mabel!"

            She concealed her grin behind a hand. Stan crossed his arms sternly.

            "You _cannot_ say things like that, pumpkin," he chided.

            "Why not, if it's true?"

            "Even if it were true - which it isn't - not to say that I don't like you, I just can't, not like that, I don't _like_ you-"

            "Stan," Mabel stopped him, eyes still gleaming. His shoulders slumped. She stood on her tiptoes, maintaining eye contact. Slowly and deliberately, she reached the tip of her finger to his nose. "Boop. It's okay."

            "Sweetheart, it's really not."

            "Why not?"

            "I'm pushing seventy! Okay? Even if you weren't my-" he made himself say it- "my _niece,_ it would still be super weird." He rubbed his nose.

            "Great-niece," Mabel corrected him.

            "Please don't-"

            "The greatest niece."

            Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, half frustrated and half mortified.

            "Okay. So at least you see where I'm coming from. All right. We can just pretend tonight never happened, and tomorrow things can go back to normal."

            "Psh. Normal." She gestured with both her arms, throwing the word across the room. "Have we ever been normal?"

            Stan sighed.

            "Dance with me again?" Mabel implored, doe eyes hitting him with laser force. He looked away.

            "No! It was a dumb enough idea the first time." His fingers gripped his sleeves tightly at the elbows as he willed himself not to bend to his niece's request. God, those eyes.

            "But Grunkle Stan-"

            That small hitch of her breath; the way she gave his name two syllables. Damn, but she knew how to wrench his heart. Another piece flaked away. His arms dropped loosely to his sides.

            "Ugh. Fine. But we absolutely, positively can _never_ do this again."

            "Mhm." She curled her small hands around his thumbs. The corners of her eyes curled up smugly. The next song began, a delicate waltz that bobbed happily along under the needle. Stan was never not going to humor her.

            Mabel tucked herself neatly against his bulk, chest flat against his stomach. She gave his hands a light squeeze and let go, circling her arms around his back. It was more hug than dance. Hating himself only a little less than he thought he would, Stan gave in and cupped his hands around her waist. His fingertips almost touched at her spine. The dress was coarse under his palms, and he was careful to limit his movement out of fear that it might relinquish its too-light grip on Mabel's skin at any moment, exposing more skin than he'd earned any right to see. He imagined running his fingers over that skin and shivered.

            "See, this isn't so bad," Mabel crooned, too close to his sternum.

            "Uh."

            "Who'd have thought Mister Mystery was just a big old softie?" She squeezed him, and their rhythmic sway slowed for a moment.

            Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn't so bad. And besides, Stan thought, trying to justify himself to himself, was it really all that terrible to be thinking these thoughts? As long as he wasn't acting upon them, no harm no foul. Right? He risked a peek down, admiring the way her rich brown hair caressed her shoulders, accenting the pastels of the crunchy paper dress. He inhaled. She smelled sweet, an indistinct blend of vanilla and melon shampoo.

            Irrationally, he was glad he'd worn a suit.

            Her head fell onto his shoulder and she closed her eyes, a serene smile dancing across her lips.

            "You're a good dancer," she said, pressed against his ribs. He blinked.

            "This is hardly dancing."

            "You don't think so?"

            "Not even a little."

            "Then show me."

            "Eh?"

            "You were getting all fancy earlier, with the spinning and the dipping."

            "You want more of that?"

            "Well, if this is going to be our last dance," she said, putting a strange emphasis on the word 'last,' "-then I want to see what you got. Bust a move. Go all out."

            Christ. Did she _want_ to see him get arrested? His shoulders tensed in suspicion. He realized that a large part of himself was expecting some CPS goons to jump from behind the wall any second, ready to separate him from the twins and slap a few lawsuits on his resume to boot. He couldn't do another stint in prison.

            "Mabel," he warned.

            She sensed his unease.

            "Grunkle Stan?" She pulled back from him, looking up at his face. "Did I say something wrong?"

            "No, Mabes," Stan sighed. "Just... I love you too much to do this."

            "Stan?"

            His face was impossibly red.

            "I mean it. I... I love you, Mabel. In a lot of ways," he added hurriedly, then cursed under his breath when he realized that statement had come out wrong. "In all the ways I'm supposed to and in some ways I'm not."

            Her bemused smile, crooked on one side. He let go of her waist, running an embarrassed hand down his face. God, he loved that smile.

            "You mean so much to me. And it would destroy me if I ruined our relationship by doing something stupid." It was probably the most honest thing he'd ever said to her.

            "Stupid how?"

            "Stupid like thinking how attractive my fourteen-year-old niece is in that dress. Stupid like taking advantage of her, stupid like asking her to dance." He shrugged, a gesture that made him look decades younger. Mabel cocked her head to one side. "Stupid like wanting to kiss her."

            He hadn't really meant to say it. It had just slipped out.

            Mabel, for once, was quiet. She stepped back, removing her hands from the small of his back. He missed their warmth. She regarded him for a long, painful moment. He clenched and unclenched his hands, awaiting her judgment.

            "Lean forward," Mabel said after a long time.

            "What?"

            "Lean forward," she repeated. "Come here."

            No way. Absolutely not.

            And yet, somehow, here he was, bending his knees and feeling those slender fingers hook through his necktie. Her face was impossibly close. That easy smile hovered millimeters from his lips.

            "Boop," she said softly, her fingertip at his nose.

            Then his lips were on hers, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he inhaled that vanilla essence. His arms enveloped her small frame easily, feeling the papier-mâché crush under their weight. The fingers of his right hand tangled in a cascade of hair, lifting it from her shoulders. It was soft, and he wanted to cry.

            In slow motion, he felt her fingers lift his glasses away from his face, putting them down somewhere - hopefully not the floor, but he didn't care, all that mattered right now was Mabel, _Mabel -_ and she whimpered against his tongue, all the forbidden flavors he'd never tasted but had always known would be so, so sweet. Her hands were on his neck, in his hair.

            The coarse fabric of the dress crumpled easily in his hands, and he crushed it joyfully. It shed a few layers.

            "Mabes," he whispered between kisses. "God. Mabes."

            "Mmf," she agreed. "You're breaking my dress."

            "Mabes," he repeated, and siphoned her lower lip into the space between his tongue and teeth. She hummed her approval, grazing her fingertips down the stubble on his jawline. "Mabes."

            The dress, now held up only by faith and the pressure of their bodies against one another, shed another few pieces of papery fabric. Mabel's shoulder blades were nearly bare. Stan gently scratched his nails along the subtle curvature of her spine, making her shiver.

            "Stan," she said. Two syllables again. "St- _an."_

            "I love you," he whispered, eyes opening as he rested his forehead against hers. She stroked his hair back. "I love you so much. Fuck."

            Mabel giggled.

            "Aw. How sweet." She kissed his cheek. He caught her fingertips in his palm.

            "Mabel, I'm sorry." His doleful eyes searched hers, pleading.

            "For what?" she whispered. "This?"

            Her lips found his again, and the Victrola crackled away as it wound down the moment. He sighed through his nose, lingering for an unforgivable second before finally, finally pulling away.

            His glasses were on the sofa. He picked them up and carefully scrutinized the lenses before replacing them upon his nose. Mabel was quiet, probing her bottom lip with a thumb, unaware she was doing so. Her other hand covered her bare chest. The remnants of the dress lay scattered at her feet.

            "Come on," Stan said, huskily clearing his throat. "Let's get this cleaned up."

            The record ended, grinding to a reluctant halt as if on cue. The spell was broken. The Mystery Shack was unbearably quiet as Stan gathered scraps of papier-mâché into his arms.

            Stan kept trying to apologize, but the words wouldn't come. What could he say that could possibly encompass the sheer magnitude of what had just happened? What he had just done? He kept silent, letting his paper heart fester and shrivel. Mabel didn't move. If she did, would the rest of her dress fall to the floor? Probably.

            Stan picked up the last large piece of dress and stood to leave, to give her some privacy.

            "Grunkle Stan?" Mabel said as he approached the door.

            "Y-yeah, sweetheart." His shoulders were painfully tense. He risked a look back at her, and somehow, impossibly, saw that she was smiling. Even now, that lopsided little grin.

            "I love you too."

            He was quiet for a long second, not daring to trust whatever feeling this was. Then he smiled. Small at first, then bigger and wider, bursting with hope. He attempted a laugh, and was amazed when it came out sounding real.

            "Oh, Mabes."

            "I'm gonna go put on pajamas. Then... can we maybe watch a movie together? Or something?"

            Nothing sounded better.

            "Yeah," he agreed, voice thick. "Yeah, pumpkin. I'd like that."

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are "Honeybee," as performed by Steam Powered Giraffe.


End file.
